Lord Fear's Christmas Carol
by HStorm
Summary: Treguard casts a spell that turns Lord Fear to the ways of good, but the magic has an awkward side-effect.


LORD FEAR'S CHRISTMAS CAROL  
  
Oh, but life was good!  
The snow was powdery white, and gave a firm, satisfying crunch  
underfoot as Lord Fear trudged merrily through the forest, his arms  
heavy with the presents he'd bought from that charming Bartram fellow  
in the village.  
My, but how he loved this beautiful time of year. The gentle nip  
of cool air reddening his normally pristine-white cheeks and nose,  
shapely dark trees coated in the flickering tides of white snow  
gathered in their mighty branches, the cottony clouds billowing  
majestically in the heavens.  
He chuckled to himself and sang a merry - and utterly tuneless -  
Christmas carol as he walked on.  
  
'Silent knight, holy knight.  
All is calm, sweet and bright.  
Lovely people with beautiful smiles,  
Lines of children lasting for miles.  
Turkey, chestnuts and buns.  
Christmas is such lovely fun.  
  
'Silent knight, holy knight.  
I just love giving gifts.  
Presents for my wonderful crew,  
Decorations for level two.  
And a tree to stand in my throne room.  
A tree with fairy lights...'  
  
And so on.  
Fear chuckled to himself in good-natured pleasure as he glanced  
idly through the bundle of presents one more time. There they were...  
a brand new eye patch for Skarkill, in pink with a lovely carnation  
motif, a nice tabard for Raptor with a cute little picture of a bunny  
rabbit on it... oh what a pleasure it was going to be giving Raptor  
that!... and a ten-litre bottle of triple-strength Listerine for  
Lissard, the present that Fear was going to enjoy giving (and seeing  
put into use) most of all.  
Oh boy, what a spankingly beautiful world Christmas was!  
  
* * *  
  
Majida didn't know what it was about Treguard that irritated her  
most. Maybe it was his stiff-upper-lip Anglo-Saxon humourlessness.  
Maybe it was his stuffy love of decorum. Maybe it was his insistence  
on wearing the same tunic all the way through the summer, meaning he  
never stopped smelling like a lump of brie after it had negotiated its  
way through the digestive system of a syphilitic donkey.  
But right now, what was infuriating her was Treguard gloating.  
He really wasn't afraid to pat himself on the back when he was able to  
pull a fast one, and he'd just pulled the fastest and onest one of all  
time.  
"All right, you tell me so," sneered Majida, trying not to sound  
impressed. "So it work. So what? The spell only last two weeks  
anyway."  
"But think, Majida, think," persisted the Dungeon Master, not  
going to be put off until he had dragged the same measure of  
enthusiasm out of Majida that he was already feeling for himself, "two  
weeks. After the two weeks are up, Fear will be incapacitated by the  
humiliation. He'll never be able to live it down! Two weeks possessed  
by the Spirit of Christmas. He'll be so embarrassed when he wakes from  
it he won't be able to stamp his authority on the Opposition again.  
Why, his whole organisation could break down... this could be the end  
at last...!"  
Majida's scepticism only grew. "So you tell me before," she  
sniffed. "I believe it when I see it, ah?"  
Treguard looked disappointed at the minimal impact his little  
plan had made on his assistant. "You really are a sourpuss aren't  
you?"  
"You call me sourpuss?" bristled Majida. "That outrageous! I no  
talking to you from now on."  
Majida crossed her arms and turned her nose up to Treguard, who  
eyed her with a knowing grin. Majida tried to ignore it, which she  
managed with great resolve for the first seven and four-fifths of a  
second. "What?"  
"You don't know what sourpuss means do you?"  
"I do!" retorted Majida. "I do, I do!"  
Again, Treguard just eyed her.  
"Okay I don't," Majida admitted with a shrug. "I still no  
talking to you."  
Treguard was triumphant. "You just talked, you just talked!" he  
taunted. He turned and marched away with what he correctly adjudged to  
be an irritating grin on his face. He paused at the door, briefly  
stuck his tongue out at Majida, and loped out.  
Majida rubbed her jaw suspiciously as she watched the Dungeon  
Master stride out. Whatever else was true of him, it wasn't like him  
to make such childish gestures at people.  
  
* * *  
  
Marblehead was a miserable place at Christmas this year.  
Skarkill was embarrassed walking around in a pink eye patch, Raptor  
was feeling self-conscious every time anyone smirked at his rabbit-top  
(which was to say, any time anyone saw him at all), and Lissard,  
misunderstanding the purpose of his present, had drunk the entire  
bottle of Listerine and had to retire to bed until the gag reflex had  
finally worn off. Sly Hands was baffled at receiving a Christmas bonus  
of money, as the use of money was a distant memory for him - money  
involved purchasing things legally, after all, a practise he had long  
ago forsworn.  
In fact, all of them were baffled at receiving anything for  
Christmas at all, especially from his Lord Bony-face Misery-guts. They  
were also a little put out that Fear was not sending them out on their  
traditional Christmas pastime of climbing down chimneys into people's  
houses and stealing all the kids' favourite toys.  
"But, yer Fearship," protested Skarkill, "it's tradition-like  
innit? We slides down chimneys into people's 'ouses, we takes their  
toys, and we puts anyone who tries to stop us in chains... luvly!"  
"Nonsense, dear Skarky," cooed Fear sweetly. "This year, we're  
doing something new, and much more interesting and exciting."  
Raptor and Hands exchanged intrigued glances. "Yeah?" asked  
Raptor eagerly. "What is it? Pillaging and burning the harvest stores  
on the farms?"  
Fear looked at Raptor in disappointment. "No!"  
"Ooo, lemme guess," begged Hands, raising his arm  
enthusiastically and jumping up and down.  
"By all means, sweet Sly," nodded Fear.  
"We goes into town," he suggested, "and finds all the blind  
people begging for money, and for a laff we steals all the cash from  
their begging bowls!"  
Fear looked appalled. "Certainly not!"  
Skarkill smiled sadistically. "Oh right. We go to Freneville  
Forest, capture some elves and chain 'em into the tree troll's mouth,  
where they get chewed to death slowly, over the course of a dozen  
agonising years..." He licked his lips. "Luvly!"  
"No," said Fear, gently but firmly. "We will do none of those  
things this year."  
"You got somethin' even better in mind?" cried Sly in amazement.  
"That's right!" smiled Fear. "This year, we're going to be...  
making rissoles!"  
There was a silence that was long, slow, and so excruciating  
that it violently killed the playful smile on Fear's face.  
"We're what?" Skarkill managed to sneer at last.  
"R-rissoles?" Fear managed to repeat, a little less confidently.  
"Rissoles. We're going to be making some. I managed to get this  
fantastic recipe for Christmas rissoles from this new cookery show  
they've just started up on the Telepathic Broadcasting Circle." Fear  
decided to do away with the sudden uncertainty he felt at his dear  
chums' reaction. "Come on, you killjoys!" he cried out eagerly. "Let's  
go cook!"  
  
* * *  
  
"Ah, the delectable Majida," Hordriss greeted the genie as she  
arrived at Facewarts Academy Of Wizarding And French Polishing  
Services.  
"Oh, you all dignity as usual," noted Majida evenly. Her tone  
turned cold. "You no fool me, Hordriss. You are randy old goat."  
Hordriss spluttered incoherently.  
"No pretend to be shocked, Hordriss," Majida warned him. "Like I  
say, you no fool me. And Marta tell me all about that time with you  
behind the stables at Crazed Heifer."  
Hordriss' face turned the colour of his robes in double-quick  
time. "Er, oh. Did she?" He tried to hide his embarrassment behind  
anger. "To kiss and tell is to indulge in acts of prostitution and  
defer payment, that is all!" he thundered pompously.  
"I no pay her," Majida corrected him, "it just girlie chit-chat.  
No big deal." Majida licked her fingernails and polished them gently  
on the lapel of her gown. "Nothing big at all, or so she tell me."  
The conversation was becoming excruciating in triple-quick time,  
so Hordriss decided that it would be best to change the subject. "What  
do you want, Majida?"  
Majida raised an eyebrow. "Direct approach?" she noted. "I  
admire that in man who smooch with serving wench behind stable..."  
"Is there something else I can help you with?"  
Majida judged that she had tormented the old man sufficiently  
for one day. "It about spell you give us..."  
"Ah yes," nodded Hordriss, allowing himself a proud smile, "the  
FESTIVE spell. One's proudest achievement yet in the mystical arts.  
How did it go?"  
Majida nodded reluctantly. "It go well," she conceded. "We cast  
it midnight Christmas Eve morning, like you say. It seem to work.  
Fearlord-thingy start being nice to everyone he see."  
"Excellent!" stated Hordriss with restrained self-  
congratulation. "Precisely as one anticipated when one fashioned the  
spell from two holly leaves, a melted candle, and the thrupenny bit  
from last year's custard pudding; the foul technomancer has become  
possessed by the Spirit of Christmas! Until midnight on the morning of  
January the seventh, he will be filled with a pervading sense of joy  
and a complete inability to be vindictive, greedy or arrogant."  
Hordriss paused to smile to himself. "One hesitates to boast of  
course, but only one's genius could have achieved it."  
"Yes, spell cause no arrogance," frowned Majida, looking  
profoundly irritated, "I see that."  
"A statement of fact cannot be arrogant."  
"Beardy wizard in silly red gown can be!"  
"One would advise that you consider your own apparel before  
criticising one's dress sense," suggested Hordriss.  
Majida glanced down at her own scarlet fatigues, and admitted to  
herself that he had a point.  
"One is gratified to hear that matters are proceeding as  
planned," continued Hordriss, "however, one surmises that there is  
more to discuss, or you would not have come all this way."  
"You betcha."  
"Well?"  
Majida hesitated, wondering whether or not she was going to  
sound vindictive. "You got another one?" she asked. "For Treguard? He  
got head bigger than balloon since he cast spell."  
Hordriss blinked wisely at her. "Really? That does not sound  
like him."  
"No," agreed Majida. "He usually pain in bottom..." (Hordriss  
cleared his throat very quietly,) "...but right now, I want hit his  
mouth with brick."  
"The insufferable pride of triumph," noted Hordriss. "Not  
unheard of, but unusual behaviour for a Dungeon Master who is old  
enough to know far better. Let me see what I can do."  
  
* * *  
  
Majida sauntered into the antechamber in as care-free and  
innocent a manner as possible... and the whiteness landed on her head  
immediately.  
At first she wondered whether it was snowing indoors. Then she  
saw Treguard sitting on his throne, a huge grin of smug jubilation  
splitting his face in a manner that more or less exactly failed to  
please the eye.  
Majida shook her head violently and a fresh cloud of whiteness  
billowed around her. The neutral smell and very dry flavour were  
immediate identifiers.  
"Flour?" she shuddered.  
Treguard stuck his tongue out at her again. "Got you! Got you!"  
He sprang to his feet and pumped the air with his fist. "I am the  
champ-i-on," he chanted, "you ar-re rubbish!"  
Majida stared at Treguard in bemusement. She'd always been  
irritated by his total lack of fun spirit, and his almost elderly air  
of reserve. But right now, he wasn't only showing signs of a sense of  
fun, but a really juvenile sense of humour.  
"What got into you?" Majida cried, deeply upset.  
"It's not what's got into me," Treguard taunted, "it's what's  
got all over you!"  
"You behaving like bottom-hole!" howled Majida. "It like living  
with smelly, beardy-weirdy, ugly, fat, fifty year-old baby."  
Treguard's grin disappeared. "I'm not fifty!" he protested.  
"Not even fifty months, I think," Majida answered nastily.  
"You're just feeling bad sporting," Treguard snapped back,  
pouting, "because you fell for the old 'tripwire-and-plate-of-flour-  
above-the-door' trick."  
Was that how he did it? Majida was wondering. Then she realised  
that this was a stupid thing to be wondering. She needed to go and  
wash large quantities of white powder out of her hair, change clothes,  
and then start wondering about something else altogether. Namely what  
the goblin-spitting hell had got into the old Dungeon Master.  
She turned and marched out, calling back, "I rather be covered  
in muck than full of it!"  
  
* * *  
  
Hordriss sighed in disappointment as Majida explained what had  
happened in the antechamber. "Alas, I feared as much when I provided  
the original spell."  
Majida peered at him suspiciously. "Feared what?"  
"An unfortunate side-effect. There is a price to pay for any  
magic, Majida. You are a genie, you should know that."  
"What does thees mean?"  
"A price for gaining it," Hordriss rumbled on, "and sometimes a  
price for using it. Especially when you are a non-magician."  
"What is thees price?"  
"Treguard cast the spell. Can you not make the calculation for  
yourself?"  
Majida looked at Hordriss, then over her shoulder at the door,  
then back at Hordriss again. "Oh no..."  
"Yes," nodded Hordriss gravely.  
"Dees spell," Majida almost whimpered, "it change caster as well  
as target! Yeah?"  
"So it would appear." Hordriss sat down heavily in his seat. He  
looked a little tired and even rather embarrassed. "It makes sense in  
a strange way. We live in a world where things are not created, but  
nurtured. Kindness and generosity of spirit are hallmarks of maturity,  
and a mature, rounded personality cannot just be brought into being  
without time and nurture."  
Majida just stared at him. She couldn't understand a word, but  
as she realised that Hordriss was warming to his subject, she chose  
not to interrupt.  
"So when we used magic to mature the technomancer," Hordriss  
continued, "the best that the spell could do was take maturity from  
somebody else."  
Majida did understand that bit. "You mean Fearlord-thing has  
Treguard's noggin, uh?"  
"Er," stammered the old warlock, hoping for a translation (just  
as the genie had been looking for one a moment earlier). He finally  
settled on saying, "Yes." It seemed easiest.  
"Thees is stoopid!"  
"Most unfortunate," conceded Hordriss, adding with a reluctance  
that was tangible, "especially as it is possible that... er, one may  
bear a small... modicum of responsibility for the..." He was thrashing  
around for the right words, "er... difficulties."  
Majida raised an eyebrow at him, a very harsh look in her eyes.  
"Oh. Hordriss," she sniffed sardonically, "don' be so hard on  
yourself."  
The sarcasm was not lost on Hordriss of course, and it took a  
supreme, nay heroic, effort of will on his part to overlook it.  
"What do we do about it?" Majida persisted.  
"One fears," admitted Hordriss, "that the spell is cast-locked  
for its fullest duration."  
"Meaning what?"  
"That the spell cannot be broken," said Hordriss, "unless with  
the willing consent of its victims."  
"W-e-e-ele-e-eng concert?" stammered Majida as she fumbled her  
way round the words.  
"Treguard has to want to be restored to normal in order to break  
the spell," explained Hordriss, "which is highly unlikely at best, as  
the spell makes its victim imagine that it is enjoying its new  
behaviour pattern."  
"Enjoying?" scoffed Majida. "He enjoying being babyish  
loudmouth? You joke, right?"  
"One fears not. We shall just have to tolerate Treguard's absurd  
behaviour until the end of the Christmas period."  
Majida needed only seconds to consider the non-stop cavalcade of  
silly pranks, practical jokes, childish taunts and babyish noises that  
she would have to endure for the next fortnight to draw her conclusion  
of that.  
"Like buggery we do!" she said, and stuck her tongue out at him,  
blowing a very loud, very prolonged, and exquisitely pitched  
raspberry.  
Majida turned and stormed out.  
Hordriss was taken aback as he watched her go, although not  
unduly shaken. After all, it was hard to take seriously the temper  
tantrums of anyone when they had a head of hair caked in baking flour.  
  
* * *  
  
Majida marched along the riverside path into the meadow of  
Wolfglade. She did have a plan, or at least the beginnings of one.  
Treguard needed the spell broken, so she'd have to release Lord Fear  
from the magic. And Fear had to want a cure before he could be  
restored to normal? Well then she'd just have to persuade him that he  
wanted one.  
Yes, she could probably do that. But getting at Fear would not  
be easy.  
"I going to need some help," she said to herself as she arrived  
at the riverbank and started washing her hair again.  
  
* * *  
  
There were glum looks around the kitchen of Marblehead as Lord  
Fear joyfully lifted a broad tray of beautifully-toasted rissoles from  
the kiln, humming to himself the tune of a new song he had invented on  
the spot only that morning - Oh How Nice For Nice People To Be Nice On  
A Nice Day.  
"Oh, wasn't this fun?" cooed Fear pleasantly. "In fact, I've  
enjoyed myself so much, lads, that this afternoon, as a reward..."  
Sly Hands, Raptor, and most particularly Skarkill, all looked up  
and gathered round their boss hopefully. "Y-yes, Fearship?"  
"...This afternoon," continued Fear, building up as much tense  
enthusiasm into his tone as possible, "this afternoon... we'll be  
making rock cakes!"  
This exciting revelation was greeted with a fresh round of  
indifference that Fear totally failed to recognise. He turned his  
attention back to the nice ingredients on the worktop and started  
preparing a nice recipe for really nice Christmas rock cakes.  
"And then, for the coup de gras..." Fear continued, "we really  
get into gear! We'll be holding a carol singing competition."  
The others all merely exchanged surly glances and stared back at  
their leader unhappily.  
Skarkill looked most angry of all. He shook his head. "This," he  
growled, "has to stop."  
  
* * *  
  
"Right," rumbled Skarkill once the others were all present. "I  
call this meetin' to order. Preparations for Operation: Let's-Bash-  
Some-Sense-Into-That-Dipstick-We-Laughingly-Call-A-Leader begin now.  
Luvly."  
Back in the kitchen, as soon as Lord Fear's back had been  
turned, Skarkill had whispered to the others, "You wanna put a stop to  
this? Conference, goblin pens, ten minutes."  
Such was the enthusiasm for this idea that it was rather less  
than three minutes later that Skarkill, Raptor and Sly Hands were  
joined by Lissard in the goblin pens, where Grippa and Rhark were in a  
cage that very precisely failed to meet any and all livestock Health  
and Safety standards as stipulated by the Angevin Administration.  
(There were none of these actually, but if they were to look at all  
the dirt in the pens, people would feel somehow that even non-existent  
safety standards were being missed.)  
"This be a joke!" growled Raptor, disgusted.  
"It's humil-... humil-... it's embarra-..." Sly Hands shook his  
head. "I feel daft. We should be out there hurtin' people and stealin'  
stuff and callin' everyone names. Not cooking riss-holes and stuff!"  
Lissard, who'd still been sleeping off his stomach aches while  
the others had been baking, glanced around at the faces of the others.  
"Risssssss-solesss?"  
"Don't ask," snapped Raptor. His tone was enough to make it  
clear that it was an instruction, not a request.  
"Look," snarled Skarkill, "I thinks I can take it as read that  
we're all agreed, right? The boss is acting like a goit, and it's got  
to stop."  
There were animated nods of agreement from all present.  
"Then we've got to find out why he's started behaving like a  
dipstick," continued Skarkill, "and then put a stop to it."  
"How?" asked Sly innocently.  
Skarkill was more hesitant. "Ah well, I haven't finalised the  
closer details of the plan I'm formulatin'-like..."  
"Because you ain't got one, right?" sniffed Raptor.  
"Well..."  
"He hassssssn't, hasssss he?" rasped Lissard irritably.  
Skarkill gave him a resentful look. "Trust you lot to spoil the  
flow-like with petty details!"  
"No plan-nesssss, no flow," pointed out Lissard, perfectly  
accurately. "Give ussss a plan, and we're with you."  
"Look," Raptor interjected, "it's obvious, ain't it? We need to  
find out what's wrong with the gaffer? We give him a medical!"  
"Oh come off it-nesssss! He wouldn't admit it'sss even  
possssssible for him to get ill. He'd never let anyone elssse-nessss  
sssee him blowing hisss nos-ssse, let alone give him a full-nessss  
medical."  
Raptor shrugged. "So we do it while he's not looking."  
"What?"  
"We make sure someone's with him all the time, we keep notes of  
everything he says and does, and take the occasional blood and urine  
sample while he's sleeping."  
Skarkill looked amazed. "Do you seriously wanna risk trying to  
get a sample of his..." His voice tailed off. "What, he still wets the  
bed then?"  
"Puddle city," nodded Raptor seriously, "or so the chamber maid  
informs me."  
"Iss thiss a sssseriousss disssscusssion?" asked Lissard.  
"Yes," said Skarkill.  
"Actually no," admitted Raptor, "I was making it up. But  
everything else is serious. Face it, my lads, we're going to need help  
with this."  
  
* * *  
  
Hands hadn't known what to make of the message that the page had  
delivered to him. This was mainly because he was hopelessly bad at  
reading, but at the same time he was a little shaken by the image on  
the seal - the emblem of the two-headed griffin superimposed on a  
giant blue eye; it was the coat-of-arms of Dunshelm Castle.  
"Wossa Dunjer-Master wantin' with me?" mumbled Hands nervously  
as the page, in a considerable rush, departed Marblehead for... well,  
anywhere that wasn't here.  
Hands, after only five minutes' careful deliberation managed to  
undo the seal and open the message. He stared at it blankly for  
several more minutes, wondering why he couldn't make out any details.  
Then he realised he was looking at the wrong side of the parchment. He  
turned it over and saw the impeccably-written words...  
  
Dearest and most respected Sylvester de Hands  
  
This is a matter of gravest urgency. You must meet with one at  
the foot of Baasst Hill at sunset. Both your leader and mine have been  
possessed by mystical energies beyond the limitations of mortal  
understanding, and we must work in collusion to liberate them. Thus  
one needs you to mediate between one and your colleagues to negotiate  
and facilitate the implementation of a mutually-beneficial agreement  
to the end as intimated above.  
  
Yours with the deepest admiration, faith and respect,  
Majida (as compiled by Hordriss T. Confusere).  
  
Unfortunately, Sly didn't understand what the word "matter"  
meant so he didn't bother to read the rest of it, and instead took it  
to Lissard to see if he could translate it.  
  
* * *  
  
"So let's get this straight," growled Skarkill, his tone taking  
an increasingly nasty and incredulous edge, "you put a spell on our  
boss, and now you're asking us to trust you?"  
Majida shrugged indignantly. "I no have anything to do with  
spell!" she protested. "I tell Treguard it never work. It always go  
wrong, even when it look like it go right. And I right."  
They were stood in a meadow at the foot of Baasst Hill, about  
half a mile from Marblehead. "They" were Majida, Pickle, Stiletta,  
Motley, Lissard, Sly Hands and Skarkill.  
Lissard and Majida had agreed a truce to meet up and compare  
notes over the FESTIVE spell-business, on the mutual condition that  
they should come unarmed and alone.  
And of course they both violated both conditions, as each knew  
the other would do. Such a level playing field of mutual distrust bred  
a surprising degree of confidence that they could at least work  
together as they both knew in advance exactly how little they could  
rely on each other.  
Majida and the other Powers-That-Be agents had sat in the higher  
branches of a large, gnarled oak tree. When the Opposition men showed  
up, it took little effort on Pickle's part to persuade them that the  
tree was possessed by a dryad that would answer to his commands, and  
it would therefore tear the life out of anyone who made a move to  
attack anyone else in the meadow.  
He was lying of course, but that's elves for you, and there was  
no way that Skarkill or the others were going to risk calling his  
bluff, especially as they knew that the truce was as much in their  
interests as their enemies'.  
"And the spell can't be broken-like?" stressed Skarkill.  
"Only by Fearlord thingie-person or Treguard, themselves," explained  
Majida sadly. "We stuck."  
Sly scratched his head. "There's only one thing confusin' me,"  
he complained.  
"Only one?" whirred Pickle in astonishment. "What?"  
"All of it," admitted Sly.  
"I'd call that a sign that we're making progress," sniffed  
Stiletta haughtily.  
"Ssso would I," echoed Lissard, giving Hands a 'sssspeak-when-  
you're-sssspoken-to' look. "Ssso, at leassst we now know why hisss  
Lord-nessss isss behaving like sssuch a jessssy."  
Skarkill nodded, but his face was still creased by a downcast  
expression. "But if we can't dispel the magic, it doesn't get us  
anywhere. Take it from me, I've never seen ol' Fearship so 'appy in  
all the time I've known 'im. We can't talk him into going back to  
normal, not a chance. He's so..." He shivered with distaste, "...so  
cheerful. So full of life. So full of the gifts of happiness,  
generosity and... euurrrghh... charm. So unluvly."  
Majida shook her head dizzily. This had to be a dream. It had to  
be. She'd suspected it since the moment that Treguard had raised the  
idea of casting the spell in the first place, and now all of this had  
finally confirmed it to her.  
Yes, it was all a dream. And it occurred to her that that meant  
that everything was going to be fine. She could even sit back and  
enjoy herself, try to accomplish some daredevil, exciting plan, safe  
in the knowledge that in reality it would make no difference  
whatsoever. This realisation was quite a relief in fact, as it really  
took the pressure off.  
"Well," she said with confidence, "we can no persuade him. But  
someone else might."  
Everyone turned to look at her. There was a nervous edge to  
everyone's bearing.  
"I'm worried," muttered Motley. "She's trying to be clever. Any  
time anyone tries to be clever, it's trouble."  
Majida rolled her eyes. "If that your attitude, forget it."  
"Ignore him," said Stiletta hurriedly. "I'd rather try a  
troubling idea than two weeks of Treguard throwing mud pies at  
everyone from the battlements."  
There were a few chortles from the Opposition goons at this.  
"You what?" hooted Sly. "Mud pies?"  
"God, I hope that's what they were," shivered Motley.  
Skarkill gave Lissard a nudge. "Hey, pr'haps we should let this  
run its course after all. Looks like a pretty luvly consolation prize  
in it for us."  
Lissard gave him a dark look. "Ssssay that to me after two more  
roundsss of hisss Lord-nessss's campfire sssongsss, and then I'll  
lisssten to you."  
Skarkill thought about this, then nodded sadly. "All right,  
genie-girl, I'm listenin'-like."  
Motley was in a stubborn mood though. "No. Let's face it, it'll  
be a stupid plan..."  
Stiletta gave Motley an unfriendly poke in the ribs with her  
elbow. "Has anyone got a sensible idea? Any takers?" No one responded.  
"Fine, so let's make do with a stupid one."  
Majida wasn't sure whether she'd won the argument or been  
mightily insulted, but decided that now was not the time to worry  
about it.  
"Fearlord no listen to us," she began, "because we all enemies.  
He no listen to you because you all henchmen. He in authority over you  
so he no take guidance from you. Yes?"  
Lissard nodded patiently. "Your point, genie?"  
"So, who would he listen to?"  
"I don't know!" hissed Lissard, exasperated.  
"No she's right," Stiletta interjected. "He must fear or respect  
someone."  
"You've come to the wrong place, girl," sneered Skarkill.  
"Respect's a one-way street with Lord Fear."  
"He'sss right," nodded Lissard glumly. "Hisss Lord-nessss  
doessn't value the opinion of anyone alive, bar hisss own."  
"No one? No one at all?" Majida looked frustrated. "No one can  
be that arrogant!" The Opposition goons said nothing, but just stared  
up at her. It said a thousand words. "Okay, he could."  
"Wait," interrupted Motley. "No one alive, did you say?"  
"Yes."  
Motley's face broke into a huge smile. "I've got an idea!"  
"Oh?" prompted Stiletta.  
"A brilliant idea."  
"Really?"  
"Oh yes."  
"Care to elaborate?" asked Pickle politely.  
"Eh?"  
Pickle made an effort to keep his temper. "Tell us about your  
brilliant idea. What sort of idea is it?"  
"The sort of brilliant idea," replied the jester, "that should  
only be expected of a man on a chief strategist's wage, not an  
impoverished, deeply undervalued but immensely talented professional  
entertainer like yours truly." He performed a quick pirouette on the  
spot as a kind of victory jig, an unwise move as the branch was  
struggling to support his weight. He tottered dangerously for a moment  
before grabbing wildly for the trunk and clinging to it for dear life.  
"Silence, everybody," mocked Skarkill, "a genius is about to  
speak."  
"He's the brains round 'ere?" snorted Hands. "God 'elp us,  
everyone."  
  
* * *  
  
Treguard was hanging from the chandeliers in the Great Hall of  
Knightmare Castle. Sidriss walked in, carrying a parchment with a  
message from her father on it.  
"Dungeon Master!" she cried, shocked. "What are you doing up  
there?"  
Treguard glanced down at her, sniffed the air reflectively, and  
then blew a loud, long, persistent raspberry at her.  
  
* * *  
  
Lord Fear slumbered peacefully, enjoying the sweetest of dreams,  
a temporal world of saccharine thoughts, occupied by hopping pink  
bunny rabbits, cute little kitty-cats, and sweet affectionate puppies.  
Oh wasn't the world beautiful? So full of little bundles of  
loveliness. It was just so perfect. All that was left was for Father  
Christmas to visit his dreams and give him a fluffy soft toy as a  
present and the world of joy would be complete.  
He pulled the blanket around himself a little tighter, the better to  
feel snug and warm. It was then that he realised that he was no longer  
asleep.  
In contented curiosity, he sat up in his chair (he always slept  
on his throne, never in a bed. For some reason he'd always thought  
lying down was unmanly, and, he was no longer sure why, but being  
unmanly had always been abhorrent to him, even though sleeping like  
this was bad for his back) and glanced around to see what it was that  
had disturbed him.  
Shrewdness was not required, for there were two ghostly figures  
standing in the shadows either side of him, their outlines all glowing  
dimly in the darkness.  
One of them stepped forward and boomed with demonic laughter.  
"MWUH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAA!!!" it roared psychopathically.  
"Greetings, you miserable scrap of festering insignificance!!! Quail  
before me, you pathetic lump of wasted sorcery!!! Prostrate yourself  
at the feet of your destiny, you vacuous, malodorous streak of  
spurious excrement!!"  
Fear blinked. "Have we met?" he asked pleasantly.  
The intruder who had accosted him paused for a moment, either  
confused by the question or put out by the lack of impact his words  
had had. He seemed to glance at one of the other ghostly figures, as  
though looking for guidance, then resumed. "You have been judged and  
found wanting, Lord Fear."  
Fear looked saddened but not overly alarmed. He got to his feet,  
and smiled pleasantly. "I'm sorry, 'judged'? By whom?"  
"You do not recognise me then, Lord Fear?"  
Fear peered at the figure as closely as he could. He took it all  
in. The bulky outline, the enormous height, the cold aura, the  
unmistakeable tinge of a pale complexion, the vibrant, booming voice  
full of arrogance and regal authority...  
"No, not really," said Fear at length. There was something  
familiar about the voice, but he didn't recognise it with any specific  
clarity. "I thought you might've been me at one point," he joked,  
"especially the white face, but that would be..."  
He broke off as the ghostly figure stepped out of the shadows  
into the (relative) light of a moonbeam shining through the overhead  
window.  
The face was his own.  
"Not a bad guess, Lord Fear," growled the spectre.  
Now Fear was really shaken. "Wh-who are you?" he stammered.  
"You just guessed it," answered the spectre. "And as I'm you,  
you'd be forcing me to repeat myself if you made me answer. And we all  
know how little Lord Fear likes having to repeat himself, eh?"  
"You're trying to say that you're me?" scoffed Fear. "I don't  
mean to be rude..."  
"No," the spectre cut in, "I bet you don't. Isn't that the  
problem?"  
"I don't understand."  
"We are here to save you, Lord Fear," rumbled the spectre  
ominously, "we are here to save your soul from the damnation and  
misery towards which you are heading."  
Fear was utterly flummoxed. Damnation? Misery? He couldn't  
remember feeling more content or happy or full of joy than he had felt  
so far in this merry yuletide season. Although come to think of it, he  
wasn't entirely sure why. Was there something different happening? As  
he paused to consider this thought, however, he suddenly felt  
something else, and that was an overwhelming urge not to think too  
hard about it, as though a little voice was whispering in his ear,  
"Never you mind all that, you've got a Hogmanay party to start  
organising, and joy to the world to spread."  
The spectre suddenly snarled at him, its tone turning more  
urgent and hostile. "Don't you see? You can't even think about it can  
you?"  
"I don't..."  
"All this paltry affection you've developed for spiritual growth  
and harmony," snorted the spectre, its voice dripping over with  
contempt, "nourishing the soul, and giving pleasure to other people  
with no thought for yourself? It's all a shallow distraction from the  
true values to which you once aspired!"  
"A distraction?" protested Fear. "Spiritual growth is what it's  
all about, surely! And harmony... without harmony there is no  
stability. If there's no stability, there's no progress. How can we  
build a better world without har-...?"  
"Build a better world?" hooted the spectre, either deeply amused  
or just appalled. "Listen to yourself! Is this what it's all come to,  
you superficial nincompoop?" The spectre spread its arms, and Fear got  
the strange impression that it was rather enjoying insulting him. "All  
this generosity? All this indulging in simple, honest, homely  
pleasures that benefit the many, and at the expense of no one? It's  
obscene! Whatever happened to larceny? Whatever happened to  
vindictiveness? Whatever happened to gold old fashioned thievery,  
cruelty or violence?"  
"Er..."  
"Where's the instinct gone?" the spectre continued, now on such  
a roll that Fear was starting to wonder if he was going to be allowed  
the chance to answer him at any stage. "The simple, honest, healthy  
impulse to hurt someone for no reason other than the sense of power it  
gives you? The drive to ruin Christmas celebrations for other people  
for no reason other than you like seeing people looking unhappy and  
disappointed?"  
Fear was again bewildered and flummoxed. The spectre seemed to  
be talking about these things as though they were par for the course,  
as though that was the way Fear had always behaved, and as though it  
was the most natural instinct in his life to be like that. But surely  
not! After all, what did he do last Christmas...?  
He had to stop and think about that. And the more he thought  
about it, the less he could answer it. Any time the vaguest hint of  
memory of last Christmas, of any previous Christmas, threatened to  
break through, he again felt this overwhelming urge not to think about  
it any further.  
In fact, now that he thought about it, he couldn't really  
remember with clarity anything he had ever done until... well,  
Christmas Eve morning in fact. That was odd. He was sure he could  
remember things quite clearly before. Or could he? It was dizzying and  
bizarre, as he now found couldn't even remember what it was like to  
remember something.  
"This was once a land of law, order, peace and harmony,"  
continued the spectre, "and you fought to change all that!"  
"I did?" Fear blinked.  
"Yes!" cried the spectre. "And we're here to jog your memory.  
BeHOLD!!!"  
He snapped his fingers and from an unseen source the chamber  
flooded with light. Hanging on the wall was a vast and imposing  
portrait of a tall and powerful figure, his white face framed by a  
giant iron helmet and twisted with gloating, arrogant evil. His body  
was adorned in black skeletal armour, and a mighty velvet cloak hung  
from his broad shoulders.  
"Hot outfit!" whistled Fear, much impressed. "Who is he?"  
"That," rumbled the spectre, "is you."  
"Me?" gasped Fear. "Oh go on!"  
"My point exactly," said the spectre. "You have lost something,  
Lord Fear. Numerous things in fact, foremost among which is all sense  
of style and class. I mean look at you now."  
The spectre waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Fear's stripy  
yellow-and-pink jim-jams, and his cotton night-cap with the 'I'm a  
happy hippopotamus!' slogan emblazoned across the front of it.  
Fear felt slightly abashed. "What's wrong with it?" he pouted.  
"It makes you look like a dork," opined the spectre. "That's  
what's wrong with it. I mean look at the figure you used to be," he  
continued, gesturing to the mighty war-lord in the portrait. "There he  
stands, master of all the evil in post-Angevin England, erect, firm,  
proud... and pretty nifty battle boots I might add." The spectre  
turned back to Fear and turned his nose up. "And look at you now.  
Nothing but a poncy-pants in pink!"  
"That's a bit harsh," Fear objected.  
"Oh shut up!" snarled the spectre.  
"Righto," nodded Fear obediently.  
The spectre rolled his eyes. "And that's the other thing, you  
big nancy! You're becoming a doormat. It won't be long before your  
henchmen lose all respect and start disobeying you."  
"They wouldn't do that!" cried Fear. "Not my boys. They're  
loyal, obedient. Good eggs. They love me as much as I love them..."  
The spectre shook his head. "They think you're becoming a wimp,  
actually. They want you to start calling them names and getting angry  
with them again." The spectre leaned a little closer and added, in a  
warning tone, "They call you 'Weedy Wendy' when you're not listening  
you know."  
Fear didn't know where it came from, but he suddenly felt a  
surge of adrenaline. He felt apoplectic. "They call me what?!"  
"Softy Susan. Lord Feeble. Lord Flowery pants. Four-eyes fluffy.  
You name it. They do not, in short, entirely respect you. You have  
forgotten that fear and respect are inseparable, and you, the very  
Lord of Fear, no longer inspire either."  
The spectre finally turned to his companion, a much shorter  
figure wrapped in a dark crimson veil, face hidden in a fetching white  
burkha.  
"Over to you."  
The second spectre stepped forward. "We are here to tell you  
future that awaits you, Fearlord-thing," she said in broken English  
that sounded uncomfortably familiar to Lord Fear, but he just couldn't  
place it. The spectre snapped her fingers sharply before he could  
think about it. "Behold! The future that awaits you on your present  
course..."  
She pointed to another wall, and there Fear saw that there was  
another portrait. He gave a shudder of astonishment.  
A short, bearded and breathtakingly ugly man was stood there, dressed  
in the same skeletal armour as in the other portrait. It didn't fit  
him well at all. The man looked dirty and run down, and seemed to be  
dragging the armour down with him. Nonetheless he still had an air of  
authority about him, as though he was a man accustomed to command.  
Worse though, far worse, was the shrivelled and pathetic figure  
crouched down at the man's feet, feebly struggling to polish the nifty  
battle boots with a bright pink duster.  
It was Yeoman Fear in a pink apron, polishing the boots of his mighty  
liege, Lord Sly of Hands.  
Fear let out a small whimper of horror. Then he howled,  
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!" and burst into tears. "It can't be that! Anything but  
that! Please!" Fear sank to his knees and buried his head in his  
hands, sobbing uncontrollably.  
The two spectres glanced at each other, then looked back down at  
Fear. "So," murmured the second spectre, "you no want this to happen,  
uh?"  
"Please," Fear wept, "anything but this. Anything at all. Oh,  
what crime have I committed to deserve this? I want to atone. I want  
to atone!"  
"So you want what's making this happen to go away do you?" asked  
the first spectre.  
"I do!" wailed Fear. "I do, I do, I do!"  
And at this point, there seemed to be a strange noise, a distant  
but familiar chord of music, like someone running their fingers along  
the strings of a harp, and out of nowhere Fear felt himself relaxing  
and a renewed surge of energy.  
The first spectre winked at the second one, who nodded and  
quickly ran off, while Fear slowly tottered to his feet.  
"Dispell," muttered the spectre quickly and quietly, "A-S-K-M."  
And suddenly Skarkill was standing there, helping Lord Fear to  
his feet.  
"Up you get, Fearship... luvly. You 'ave an accident, chief?"  
"An accident?" scoffed Fear. "Me? Are you implying that I am afflicted  
by the banes of clumsiness, Skarkill? I couldn't have an accident even  
if I went for a walk on the moon of fire with all four of my eyes  
closed."  
"No of course not, yer Fearship... I mean, lordship. But, why  
were you on the floor?"  
Fear glanced down at the floor blankly. "Er..." That was a good  
question actually. But he shrugged. "Well why not?" he asked, rather  
weakly. "It's a free country. Speaking of which, we haven't done much  
about changing that recently have we?"  
"No, yer lordship. Unluvly, innit?"  
"I quite agree, so get moving."  
"Yes sir."  
"Sort of now-ish."  
"Where to, sir?"  
"Anywhere that isn't particularly close to me," suggested Lord  
Fear. "I've had my full dosage of knucklehead henchman for one day.  
Now bug off, you loathsome maggot."  
Skarkill gave a smile of relief. "On my way, yer Fearship!" he  
said with a salute. "And good to have you back, sir."  
Fear watched through narrowed eyes as Skarkill left. What in the  
seven worlds did that tiresome goblin master mean by that?  
He sighed, feeling exhausted, then glanced down at himself and  
almost jumped in fright.  
"What the buggering hell am I wearing?"  
  
* * *  
  
Everything was back to normal in Knightmare Castle as well.  
Treguard had, after hearing explanations of all that had happened,  
cringed his way through a protracted and embarrassed apology to  
Sidriss, and numerous other people he'd been rude to in the last  
couple of days for that matter.  
So that evening Majida and Pickle were in the dungeon  
antechamber enjoying mince pies and a glass of Spanish sherry (an  
unwise choice of beverage, as sherry was famous for giving elves the  
hiccups) when the communication was received. They looked into the  
Pool of Veracity and saw Skarkill's smug-ugly face.  
"All is well at your end I... hic! ...take it?" asked Pickle,  
hoping the answer was no.  
"Like you care," sneered Skarkill. "But yes, everything's top  
stock again. Luvly. We'll be back to chaos and victimising the poor,  
the innocent and the weak again in no time. Very luvly!" He paused and  
then added, more reluctantly, "Guess we owe you one, even if it was  
you lot who made the mess in the first place."  
"I tell you before," retorted Majida, sharply raising her voice  
above the noise of Pickle's indigestion, "I warn Treguard not to use  
spell. It not our fault..."  
"All right, all right!" fumed Skarkill. "That's why I said we  
probably owe you one. So as a gesture, we'll keep the truce goin' till  
New Year. It'll take his Fearship that long to get over the  
embarrassment of being seen wearin' pink pyjamas anyway."  
Majida tried not to smirk. "That very accommodating of you, Skarkill."  
"Yeah right," growled Skarkill, "whatever." There was a brief  
silence, scuppered only by another loud hiccup from Pickle, during  
which Skarkill seemed to roll over a thought in his mind. He then  
said, grudgingly, "'Ave a Merry Christmas." More meaningfully he  
added, "'Cos we're gonna give you a hell of a rotten New Year."  
Skarkill's face dissolved from view. Majida looked up with a  
smile at Pickle, who let out an unsteady belch in response. Majida's  
smile faded into a revolted frown, but then she smiled again and  
raised her glass.  
"Oh well," she shrugged, "it the party season. If you can't burp  
now when can you burp, uh? Merry Christmas, Gherkin."  
"Merry... hic! ...Christmas, Majida," answered the elf. "And  
it's, er... Pickle by the way." 


End file.
